


Notre Dame

by AlphaStarr



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Missing Supports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-29
Updated: 2015-04-29
Packaged: 2018-03-26 07:46:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3842725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlphaStarr/pseuds/AlphaStarr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Libra could hardly stand to touch another person, lest his hand wound instead of heal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Notre Dame

**Author's Note:**

  * For [equiuszahhax](https://archiveofourown.org/users/equiuszahhax/gifts).



> May be read as a support log, though one far more novelized (and expression-based) than in-game.

Our Lady.

Libra remembered still the day they set out, having discovered the Exalt Emmeryn’s capture. It was he and a dozen others, Mother Elspeth and her flock, as she called them. Orphans, one and all-- Mother Elspeth herself a survivor of a pandemic, the others orphaned by the war between Ylisse and Plegia. They-- and he-- had none to turn to but the embrace of Lady Naga's faith and the ruling hand of Emmeryn. And, for giving hope to a clutch of hopeless orphans, they were devoted to their Queen.

It was, after all, she who ended the war.

The Exalt was  _their_  Lady, having given herself completely to the mercy and aid of her people. Where there was hatred and riot, she met it with love and peace. Where there was apathy and dissonance, she met it with nurture and harmony. Where the medicine of loss was bitter, Exalt Emmeryn was the spoonful of sugar. She was, like the monks and clerics themselves, an agent of Lady Naga placed upon the earth, doing good and bringing faith to all.

Perhaps, he thinks sometimes, more of his comrades would have lived if he’d spent more time praying for their safety, if he’d managed an extra prayer or two between praying for the Exalt to live and or Naga's divine providence to deliver them all safely... but that is what they all prayed for, that terrible week in the desert. His fellow monks and clerics, his brothers and sisters, their lives slowly peeled away, one by one-- there was first Corinthia, who suffered a lance to the chest before anyone could teleport her away. And then Ishmael, using everything he had to cover the rest of their party’s escape. Iona, Adriel, Gautama-- all in quick succession, a battle so hectic that Libra could hardly see how they passed, only pray for them to find peace with Naga.

The desert was dry, and the walk was long, and Mother Elspeth was old-- but her true undoing was that she was selfless. That her youthful charges might have a mouthful more to drink, she hid her thirst and vanished away so quickly that they were but walking one moment and the next, she had gone-- fallen face-down in the sands, gasping at the dryness, and then dead.

They were careful to lose no others to the desert's own natural defenses, but then they arrived at the execution. Prepared for Prince Chrom’s mighty Shepherds, the Plegians far outnumbered and outpowered the priests. They killed Libra’s brothers and sisters like lambs at the slaughter, and only through the providence of Naga herself did Libra manage to fight his way through, only to discover that none of his Brothers or Sisters had made it there with him.

The rest of the battle was a blur-- he spoke to Lord Chrom and joined his militia, and ultimately failed his family, the church that had accepted him when even the parents who’d birthed him could not. The Exalt was dead, fallen by her own hand to save the souls of her people-- indeed, the souls of all people-- from Grima’s devouring.

And, though Chrom seemed to trust him well enough, Libra knew that someday he would fail to protect one of his allies, that he wouldn’t have a Mend staff in time or that he’d fail to hit the mark on a vital foe. None would blame him for it, he knew, but he would feel the guilt weighing upon his heart like a leaden chain. Another shackle to the darkness within him to join the twelve that weighed there already.

He knew that all of the gods' creatures should be equal in his heart, that he should pray for the enemies he felled as much as he prayed for the allies he'd made, but even then, the deaths of those close to him felt much closer, and he felt them much more deeply. It was normal, he knew, but the two hundred and seventy three men he'd killed had families, too. They meant something to somebody. That the loss of twelve meant so much more to him than the loss of two hundred and seventy three plagued him, and he did his best to alleviate his guilt by praying that they, too, had found salvation. He would, on occasion, look at the face of a felled Plegian dark mage and think, _That once could have been Tharja or Henry_. He would look at a mangled Valmese archer or wyvern rider and think, _That might've been Cherche or Virion in different circumstances._

And for every prayer that he and his comrades would live through the next battle, he was praying for the death of a foe.

The Risen, at least, made him feel guiltless about putting the dead back to rest.

The pain of loss and the idea that he'd inflicted this very same pain upon dozens of others made his heart ache. His birth parents, he thought, had been right-- he was a demon in a man's body.

Libra could hardly stand to touch another person, lest his hand wound instead of heal.

He turned his hand, when not mixing tinctures or training, to the pencil, sketching out the faces of people he'd lost. To forget, after all, would be dishonoring their sacrifice, and they deserved far better than to become a memory lost to the ages. He drew Mother Elspeth, white-haired and wrinkled but her body still tough, still bearing the strength to wield an axe. Her figure in battle, face determined... the face she made in prayer, at peace... her body strewn gracefully over the sands, almost as if she were asleep, pale habit beginning to blend into a land of the same color.

He drew Krishan standing stalwart against faceless foes, Scorpius preparing the morning prayer, Aria healing the wounded. And, too, did he see their actions mirrored in the Shepherds, almost as if the players had changed but the lines remained the same-- Frederick defending the army like a wall, Robin arranging the next major strategy, Maribelle scolding another for their careless injury. The memories ached, but, he thought, it was a good type of grief.

But even a peaceful sadness requires respite, and Libra would steal away to someplace quiet each evening to pray-- an empty clearing in the woods, tonight.

"May the gods deliver us from battle unharmed," he murmured, kneeling over the ground, hands over his axe for support. In his mind, he listed every Shepherd in the thrice roster, careful not to forget any-- it took him several tries to remember Kellam, but he would never forgive himself if he'd accidentally ommited someone from prayer. "And so, too, deliver safely our slain foes to Naga's mercy."

"You--!!" a startled voice shouted, nearly breaking Libra's concentration completely.

Libra's eyebrow twitched at the sudden distraction, and he quietly asked Naga to provide him the patience to deal with another human being today.

"Thank you," Libra whispered before standing, long hair falling back against his shoulders as he unbent his head. He plastered a placid smile on his face, "Yes? Is there something you needed?"

It was Lon'qu, his hand covering the lower half of his face, but not quite enough to conceal the entirety of his furiously red face. The swordsman's blade had apparently clattered to the floor in surprise.

It took him a second to compose himself, but Lon'qu eventually blurted out, "Leave."

The smile fell from Libra's face and he sighed, "Places such as this belong to no single person... but if my presence truly disturbs you, I shall leave."

He trod towards the entrance, an overgrown path behind Lon'qu, only to find the swordsman begin to back away as well.

"Does my presence bother you so much that you would lead me away to ensure I don't return?" Libra turned his head to the side, wearing a confused expression, though a steely edge stole its way into his voice.

"I-it's not--" Lon'qu stuttered, stumbling clumsily against a tree he hadn't noticed sneak up behind him. "Back away, woman!"

Oh, thought Libra, it's this again. He sighed and rubbed his fingers over his temple before replying.

"I assure you, I am a man," the priest answered firmly, quite irate with his fair, deceptive appearance. "Now, if you'll excuse me."

He brushed past Lon'qu easily, tensing so their shoulders wouldn't touch, and exited for the evening. At least, in the tent he slept in, he wouldn't be mistaken for a woman again.

* * *

 

The next afternoon, having returned from gathering herbs in the morning, Libra occupied himself with mixing disinfecting tinctures. Rosemary and rock salt, for fresh wounds... cool, moss poultices to keep the older ones healing properly. Brother Nereus' recipe, he remembered fondly, missing the monk who'd taught him the arts of basic herbalism.

"You."

Again, Libra looked up from his reverie, a soft frown coming upon him as he realized again that it was Lon'qu, who, until yesterday, had kept more than his fair share of distance.

"Can I help you?" Libra asked with but a moment's pause.

"I apologize," the swordsman stated shortly, closing his eyes as if searching for words. "I did not mean to assume... your gender the other night."

"Ah," the defensive tenseness Libra didn't even truly know he'd been holding seemed to melt off his shoulders, however minute the change might've been. "You meant no harm. I'm afraid to say it's a rather common mistake."

"Yes," Lon'qu agreed, standing before Libra as if nothing at all had been said.

A minute passed in awkward silence.

"Is... there anything else you wanted?" Libra turned his head and asked, genuinely perplexed.

"To know if I'm forgiven," he answered, hands clenching into fists, his eyes downcast and clouded.

"Forgiveness is divine, and I am far from it," Libra remarked, seeming to drift out into memory for a second. Perhaps it wasn't Lon'qu he would never forgive, but a world where such assumptions were so common. Then, he quickly snapped back into reality and reassured him, "But as far as I'm concerned, there was no foul in the first place. It was an honest mistake."

"Good," Lon'qu gave a sharp nod before turning to leave.

"Ah, wait..." Libra called, but when Lon'qu stopped in his exit, he found that there was nothing else he could say to him. What do you, after all, say to a person who purposefully went out of his way to ask for forgiveness?

"What is it?" Lon'qu grunted. "I have training."

"Ah... just, thank you," Libra answered, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he gave a soft smile that wasn't quite the peaceful one he usually wore.

"You're welcome," Lon'qu mumbled back, trying to ignore the way his heart fluttered at that smile. It reminded him of a time that had long ago passed, one that he tried not to remember if he could help it. "Excuse me."

He hurried from the medical tent, trying to bury that recollection with distance from its source. It wasn't until several hours after he'd left that Lon'qu realized the smile was genuinely happy, rather than merely content.

The flutter remained for several days.

* * *

 

The wake of a battle, thought Libra, was almost worse than the duration of it. At least when you were fighting, all you could think about was surviving and making sure your friends were still alive. Stray rivulets of blood slid down the handle of his axe and stained his hands and gauntlets and sleeves a furious brown-red. Whose blood it was, Libra didn't know, but the proof of his violence against his fellow man sickened him, a red letter that marked him a murderer.

He healed the wounded with bloody hands that had caused wounds on their foes, leaving a sticky red print on the handle of his staff. Maybe, he thought, the good done by these hands would reduce the stain of the evil done by them, even evil committed in the name of a greater good and ultimate peace.

That evening, he washed his hands over and over, the water of the nearest stream turning pink as he washed away at his blade, his gauntlets, his fingers, the water seeming to never run clear.

"You," a familiar voice called to him, and Libra's eyes immediately went wide at the horrifying proximity. He could almost feel the breath on the back of his neck.

"I'm--" Libra stuttered, turning only to come face-to-face with Lon'qu-- indeed, so close it was almost nose-to-nose. He was so startled that in his attempt to get away, he tangled his legs in his habit and fell backwards into the water, sputtering and flailing in the shallows before at last re-gaining his bearings. "Ah... you startled me!"

"Sorry," Lon'qu grunted, standing so he could give the priest a hand up. "Just wanted to check you were okay."

"I'm fine, I'm fine," Libra struggled to stand on the stones in the stream, plastered with slippery river-weed. He nearly fell over again. "I'm okay, really."

"You're still bleeding," Lon'qu answered tersely, beginning to feel awkward with his arm outstretched.

"Pardon?" Libra sputtered, managing to at least sit up in the water.

"Your shoulder," Lon'qu offered his hand more insistently, beginning to step into the stream to help him further. "You... you injured it, blocking the enemy I didn't notice in the last battle."

"... did I?" Libra looked down at his shoulders, and sure enough his left sleeve was bloodied from a slice on the side of his deltoid. Rather stupefied, he realized, "Oh. I supppose that's possible... I hadn't noticed."

"Look. Just," Lon'qu thrust a hand of aid in Libra's direction. "Take that. I'll help you up."

"No, really, I'm quite all right," Libra insisted, trying to right himself once more. He nearly slipped down again, except Lon'qu's lightning reflexes caught a flailing hand and pulled him against the swordsman's body, lest he fall over again.

"Are you an idiot?" Lon'qu hissed, his heartbeat going into overdrive and his face flushing.

"S-stop that," Libra's eyebrows knit together, deeply troubled. "Don't touch me!"

With his strength, truly quite formidable for a monk, he pushed Lon'qu away so he fell against the ground. Libra fled, watery blood from his shoulder wound still dripping from his soaked sleeve.

Lon'qu watched, and quietly wondered what, exactly, he'd done wrong.

* * *

It was some days later that found Libra at the training grounds, his shoulder freshly re-bandaged and anointed with another dosage of the rosemary and salt mixture. It stung fiercely, but it was far superior to having an infection-- after all, it was infection that was the leading cause of amputation, and though he could make do without, Libra preferred both of his arms attached to his body.

And so, too, was the pain of an apology worth preventing the severance of a friendship, he reminded himself. Metaphors were funny in that way. Lon'qu, in this remark, was a far braver man than he, managing to say sorry so many other times.

"Lon'qu," the priest delicately approached, watching the swordsman's chest heave as he took a brief respite from ceaselessly whacking at a training dummy. "If... If I may have a word?"

"You?" Lon'qu's eyes flickered towards him, something seeming to give in both body and resolve that made his knees weaken. "What is it?"

"I... wished to apologize for the other day at the stream," Libra's eyes searched his face for a sign of rejection. "I meant you no harm... I was startled. The fault is mine."

"Right..." Lon'qu directed his gaze away from Libra's own sincere face. "I understand."

Libra's face softened into a sad peace as he studied Lon'qu's flustered expression, "Do you?"

The swordsman's jaw tightened, his hands gripping the hilt of his sword and a determination burning in his eyes, "I do. I understand... the loss, and what failure can do. I know."

"At peace," the monk stepped closer to him. Though he wanted to offer a comforting hand, he could not, lest he taint the precious memories. "Whomever it was... they are in Naga's hands now. And the universe can offer no better protection than our Lady."

"You mean, you can't protect the dead," Lon'qu shut his eyes. "I train now only to prevent a similar fate befalling the living. But I see her... and I remember how I couldn't protect her. I remember her... every time I look at..."

"... a woman," Libra murmured, the last piece of the puzzle clicking into place. "So that's why--"

"Yes," Lon'qu straightened at last, breathing as if a stone had been lifted from his chest. "And you... lost more. Enough that it extends to almost everybody. Including myself."

"No... not more than any other," Libra blinked his eyes in a bid to prevent himself from crying. "Only enough to be afraid."

Afraid of closeness, he meant, and Lon'qu understood, for he'd ached the same way. He clenched his fingers, but he was ultimately unable to resist the urge to comfort. A hand left his sword to reach for Libra's face, aiming to brush away the tears dripping from his eyes.

Libra flinched before he could touch, as if a hand two inches from his cheek felt just the same as a stab wound. His eyes shot open just in time to see the flicker of hurt cross Lon'qu's features.

"Sorry. Forgot," Lon'qu mumbled, turning his gaze away.

"No, it's my fault, I... was startled. It was an involuntary reaction," Libra explained, fumbling for words.

The silence that followed filled the air between them as they carefully avoided looking in each other's eyes.

Libra looked at the hand he'd rejected-- the hand that had been the end of hundreds of foes, the hand that practiced killing techniques day in, day out, and yet. Yet too was it the hand Lon'qu had offered to lift him from the stream, the hand that had defended him in battle, the hand that would abandon his sword to brush away the tears of a silly, weeping priest. And in that moment, he made a decision.

Libra took it in his own, and Lon'qu stiffened.

"You--" he trailed off into incoherent sputters.

"Yes," smiled Libra-- his real smile, the one that was truly happy and not merely contenting. "You can see... it truly _is_ startling."

"Libra," the swordsman uttered his name for the first time, a Molotov cocktail of emotions flickering across his face.

For a second, Libra was worried... but this cocktail exploded into what became a fit of flames, warm and affectionate and aggressively tender.

A kiss.

The priest jolted with the shock of the touch, even though some part of him knew, was expecting it. Lon'qu, too, had a bit of a start, as if he hadn't truly realized what he was doing. They were both horrendously inexperienced, the first touch of lip-on-lip little more than a slightly wet peck. But they looked in each others' faces afterwards, saw the same timid flush as if in a mirror.

Libra's unoccupied hand cautiously lifted to tilt Lon'qu's face down for a second brief connection, almost as if he feared he'd burn the swordsman, but Lon'qu seemed to thrive off of it, pulling the hand from his cheek to hold it within his own and, with a beginner's uncertanity, kiss him again.

And this, thought Libra, the fingers of both hands twined deeply with Lon'qu's and the exchange of timid first kisses. This was a memory that was all their own.

**Author's Note:**

> Libra and Lon'qu attained support level S.


End file.
